"I've been through the dark side of hell and back again; journeyed through life with nary a friend. I've laughed and I've cried; I've lived and I've died, and yet each day I'm condemned to do it again and again." Michael Lambrix (death row ~ Florida)

Wednesday, 20 May 2015

Alcatraz of the South, Part 6: When the Dreams Began – The Dance With Death

It shouldn’t have been this cold when it was barely October, at least
not here in Florida and yet there I was awaken in the dead of the night
soaked in a cold sweat. Instantly wide awake, I had been all but
violently catapulted back into this realm of reality by the first
nightmare that I could recall, and even to this day more than a quarter
of a century later, I still remember it only so well.

It was early October 1986, and I had recently been moved to another
cell, one just vacated by the condemned man who had hung himself from
the ventilation duct in his desperate attempt to escape the reality that
was “Death Row”. I’m not the superstitious sort and never put much
stock into “ghosts,” at least not until that night. Over the years I’ve
heard my share of stores that would probably make most shudder and been
awaken many nights by the screams of another prisoner who claimed to
have seen something – some even claimed to have been physically touched.

I suppose that is should be expected, given the violence and inhumanity
that hangs like a wet blanket over any prison. Especially one with the
dark history of Florida State Prison, where far more have died a violent
death than have been put to death by state sanctioned execution on the
infamous “Q-wing.” At the time I could see it from the distant catwalk
window from that particular cell I then occupied.

It was strange, and yet familiar, as most dreams can be. Shadowy shapes
crowned by featureless faces that could not be recognized. But there
was a part of your inner consciousness that knew who they were. Each
detail was branded into my steel bunk, the well-worn mattress soaked in
my own sweat and now stinking of urine and other bodily fluids I don’t
care to contemplate, and I lay as still as a trembling man might,
staring anxiously at the small steel-grated ventilation duct, as if I
perhaps if stared long enough, I would see what something within me
believed to be there.

Time becomes irrelevant when one remains trapped between what we might
dare call “reality” and that world in which our mind plays when we dare
to drift off to sleep. You know what I’m talking about. We have all
been there in our own way. Only, this was my first trip to that abyss
where my own consciousness balanced precariously between those two
worlds.

I could not bring myself to look around for fear that it was not a
dream. I could only lay still, willing them to go away. But they
didn’t leave. They had come for me, the cruel trick of a twisted mind.
I would be deprived of those last few days and hours I had mentally
come to count on. They would rob me of those moments in which I could
convince myself I had cheated death, reminding me of that truth we all
try to deny: that when it comes down to it, nobody really cheats death.
In the end, nobody gets out alive – nobody.

In this nightmare, my time had come and now all that remained was stolen
time that would soon expire. But it was only a dream – a nightmare, or
was it? In that moment, it seemed so real that it had to be real.

I felt myself reading upwards until my hand touched the top of my head
in a desperate attempt to reassure myself, as we all know only too well
that they will shave the condemned man’s head before that final hour.
Something within me involuntarily screamed as my sweaty palm ran its
way across my head, realizing to my horror that it was shaven and so it
had to be real, and my fear rose to a new level. Like a trapped and
cornered animal, I felt that panic within me and turned to face that
voice of that angel-of-death that now stood before me, dressed in black
as if it was the Grim Reaper himself. It was the prison warden and he
looked back at me with an emotionless stare, while all but chanting
those few words no condemned man wants to hear… “It’s time to go!” He
had been through this many times and had long ago become enslaved by the
strict routine – or as they call it, “protocol.”

Behind the warden stood the prison chaplain. Desperately, our eyes
momentary locked as I stared into his soul, hoping to find even the
slightest hint of mercy and compassion, and yet my stare was met only by
the graven gleam of a man only too willing to deliver my soul into the
very pits of hell himself, and that ever so slight smile that ripped
apart his cracked lips confirmed that I would find no measure and mercy
from the man of “God”…and I should have known better than to expect
such. I have never known a prison chaplain that had anything but
uncompromised malice towards all condemned prisoners.

Nowhere to run, no on to turn to, I felt myself rising from that bunk,
moving in a crab-like crawl towards the black wall and unable to go any
further, unable to escape….and they stepped forward towards me. I could
not get away. I was hopelessly trapped and apparently the only one who
didn’t know it. With nothing more than a nod of his head, two faceless
guards came towards me. I felt that need to struggle, to fight, but I
didn’t…I couldn’t. They knew what to do and without hesitation, they
grabbed me by my upper arms from both sides, all but immobilizing my
body with their seemingly superhuman grip. Within me, I screamed, I
struggled, but my own fear had paralyzed me into complete submission.

Almost dragging me from within that relative sanctuary that was my
solitary cell, I pled with my captors as they pulled me into that
brightly lit hallway. If only I had a few more minutes, just a little
bit more time, I would win a reprieve. They didn’t have to do this, I
argued. But my pleas fell upon calloused ears and again all became
silent as I was physically pulled towards the open solid steel door that
led beyond and into the fate that awaited me.

In that silence that can only scream from within, my mind continued to
struggle and beg with my captors and yet those words within me wouldn’t
come out. My body numbly continued forward as I felt so utterly
helpless, so completely alienated from all that was being played out.
It was not really happening – it could not be happening, and yet, it
was.

As a group, with my body still firmly gripped at each side by the
muscular guards, we stepped into that death chamber and there only a few
feet in front of me, I came face to face with that seemingly surreal
chariot of death they proudly proclaimed to be “ole Sparky,” Florida’s
infamous inmate-built electric chair. There it sat in a state of
inanimate, deathly patience as it awaited its next victim and in that
distorted reality of which the worst of dreams are made, I could feel
that tangible presence of pure evil that this heavy oak, three-legged
wooden beast was. It was alive as only the monster of beasts could be,
its unquenchable thirst for the soul of the next condemned man felt by
all within its presence.

The entourage continued to step forward into this unnaturally cold
chamber of death, delivering my body on to that perverse altar of
state-sanctioned sacrifice. Consumed by an overwhelming fear that only a
condemned man about to be executed could understand, I could only stare
ahead in wide-eyed terror as every minute detail became forever branded
upon my brain and yet in a surreal sort of way, I could see nothing at
all and felt trapped within a freeze frame picture show as if I was
somehow separated from my body and looking upon the events, yet another
witness to my own imminent execution.

I could see my own body as the guards brought me up to the very presence
of this man-made monster and only then ordered me to turn around so
that I could be seated and as my body obediently complied. I then felt
that first touch of that cold wooden oak chair as the unyielding hands
of the only too eager guards guided me down upon it and without further
hesitation commences to firmly secure my limbs to that chair. I could
feel the cold, clammy leather straps as they were deliberately pulled
tight around each of my wrists. I briefly dared to look into the eyes of
one of the guards as he lowered himself down almost as if kneeling
before me to then secure each of my lower leg about where my calf was to
this solid wooden beast, and I was taken aback by that empty,
emotionless absence of a soul of a man and just as quickly turned away.
It was like looking into the very eyes of evil itself, and I only felt
again that distinctive tightening of another leather strap as that wide
black leather restraint was pulled tight around my waist and I then
became all but one with that chair, helplessly immobilized and unable to
resist any further even if I could have found the strength within me to
do so and in that moment in time, I knew that my fate was sealed.

Behind me not more than a few feet away, I could hear whispered voices
instructing an unseen executioner, each word thunderously echoing within
and yet strangely muffled so that I could not make out the actual words
– and yet although not comprehended audibly. I knew what each word
said. Lost in that momentary struggle to focus on the voice, I
unexpectedly felt the cold steel of the heavy electrode as it was pushed
almost violently against my inner ankle as yet another belt-like
leather strap was pulled tight to keep it in place. I could feel the
weight of that heavy black wire now firmly attached to my leg and as I
looked down, I could see how it snaked its way along the beige
faux-marble tile floor only to disappear somewhere behind me.

Without warning, my head was forcibly pulled upward and back by these
same strong and determined hands and as it was, I felt the two parallel
blocks of wood which would immobilize my head between them, and yet
another clammy leather strap was pulled across my forehead and secured
tightly behind the chair and just that quickly I could no longer move my
head at all. I still felt myself struggle to do so, but it could not be
done.

Frantically, with only my eyes free to move, I looked directly forward
only to see what appeared to be my own reflection looking back at me
from the glass window panes that separated that chamber of death from
the spectators that had voluntarily gathered to watch me die this day.
At first, for what seemed to be an eternity, I remained transfixed to
that reflection of myself and could now see the fear within my own eyes
as if I had myself become one of those spectators and waited now to
watch myself die a deliberate and violent death. As these fragmented
thoughts raced through my head, I could feel my own hear thumping louder
and louder with each thump-thump reverberating through my entire body
and then violently echoing in my head like powerful waves continuously,
yet methodically, crashing upon a rocky shore.

Beyond my own reflection, I could see the shadowy shapes of the
statuesque figures of the witnesses that sat silently in the gallery
beyond. That glass panel that separated their space from the death
chamber was a world away and the dim light beyond played tricks with my
perception. It seemed as if perhaps it was nothing but carefully
arranged mannequins. I could detect no movement and try as I might to
look into their eyes, desperately darting my own eyes from one to the
next, not one made any movement at all, but simply stared at me with a
blank, stare reminding me of a sinister oil painting I had once seen.
The perception of time passed seemed to cease for me. It could not had
been more than a minute that passed.

I felt a hand as it touched my shoulder and the warmth of another’s
breath near my ear. It was the prison chaplain, asking if I had any
last words. I had many words and wanted so much to say what I felt in
my heart, and yet, I could not say a word. I became imprisoned in that
prolonged silence as I mentally struggled to utter a sound, any sound.
And I know that I didn’t want that prison chaplain anywhere around me,
most especially at the time of my death. It felt like an unforgiveable
act of betrayal that at the very moment I so desperately needed to know
that God had not abandoned me, the only representation by anyone acting
as a man of God would be a man that I knew held nothing by contempt for
true spiritual faith.

But I was nothing more than a state-sanctioned circus and each of the
clowns had their own part to play. My part was to die and it was
expected that I would not stray from the script. If I played my part
well, then once I was gone, the group of guards and prison
administrators would congratulate themselves on what a fine and
outstanding job they did.

I struggled to speak a few incoherent words. Even I could not make out
what I had said. In that ghostly reflection of the glass I could see the
chaplain almost smiling as I felt his hand gently pat my shoulder, and
just as he did, the guard standing behind the chair suddenly pulled down
a leather mask over my face. Although serving its purpose of hiding my
face from those who would be horrified if compelled to watch the
involuntary muscular contortions as they would soon rip through my
facial tissue, I could still see light coming from both sides of that
leather mask, and was by no means blinded myself.

Continuing the ritual with the precision of a properly trained drill
team, I felt a heavy weight at the top of my head as unseen guards moved
quickly to now attach that metal colander atop the leather scull cap
and then the heavy wire to that single brass screw. I felt water
running down my face and the smell of salt – and the unmistakable scent
of previously burnt flesh – and found myself wondering why they didn’t
at least use a new sponge, as we all knew that they would attach that
piece of natural sponge soaked in a saline solution so as to serve as
the conductor between the electrode and my shaven head.

That apparatus affixed to the top of my head was secured by yet another
leather strip with a crudely fashioned small cup brought down to my chin
and pulled unnecessarily tight, so tight that it forced my teeth
together in physical pain. I knew that my last moments were now all but
exhausted and in a moment of sudden calmness, that blanket of fear that
had hung over me as I played my own part in this twisted ritual of
death was suddenly lifted. In that moment of clarity of thought and
consciousness, I felt as if time had suddenly frozen altogether, even
the whispered voices echoing in an otherwise unnatural silence seemed to
cease and all was quiet, even too quiet.

But just as quickly that overwhelming fear returned with a forceful
vengeance and somehow I knew that within those next few seconds my
nightmare would take its final twist. I continued to stare straight
ahead, eyes wide open looking forward into that darkness of that black
leather mask. I was stricken by a violent physical force that ripped
through my body with an unimaginable pain as if ever molecule of my
being was simultaneously being ripped apart, and I could feel that
warmth of my own urine running down my thighs and puddling in the
recesses of that chair, and my body violently strained against the
straps that held me and swithin the very depths of my soul I felt myself
scream as only a man being electrocuted could and it wouldn’t stop. I
remained fully aware of each pulse of electricity that was shoot through
my head down into my back and through my left foot and out that
electrode attached to my ankle.

As my body arched in unnatural contortion, I felt my fingertips
desperately dig into each of the arms of that heavy oak chair, molding
themselves into the slight recesses previously imprinted by past patrons
of this infamous chariot of death and forever continued to slip slowly
by one eternal second after another, and that unspeakable pain wouldn’t
stop, cutting through me like a dull knife, ripping my organs apart with
its shear force and all the while I could hear the distinctive sound of
a phone ringing and found myself wondering why nobody would answer the
phone….

And then I awoke. It was so cold, as if death itself, and yet my body
was soaked from head to toe in sweat, and I lay there motionless,
trembling uncontrollably and yet willing myself not to move lest they
realize that I am still alive and proceed to put me through this again.
I could still hear that phone ringing in the distance, and as I slowly
awoke I realized that it was coming through the window out on the
catwalk, where just a few feet away a phone hung on the wall for the
recreation yard crew. But why would anyone call that number in the
middle of the night when nobody would be out on the rec yard at that
hour?

That was but my first dance with death, and although as the years
dragged by I would have many, too many other similar dreams of my own
death, not one remained branded within my very being like that first one
was. And when I would awaken on other sleepless nights vaguely aware
that I must have been dreaming again, I found that the dream I
remembered would always be that first nightmare that I had back in the
early fall of 1986 and it would continue to haunt me with a
determination that only the angel of death could possess.

As the years passed, Florida did away with the electric chair and banish
that three-legged monstruosity to an undisclosed warehouse where it
would remain as a piece of history that would come to be looked upon
just as today we look with morbid fascination upon the relics of that
dark history of humanity’s past.

For as many years as Florida continued to use that electric chair, at
least in those years that I have been here now, they have adopted use of
a gurney upon which the condemned man would be strapped and rendered
physically immobilized in that same chamber of death as a lethal dose of
drugs would be pumped into his (or her) veins until death was
inflicted.

And yet in all those years since the use of lethal injection replaced
the use of that chair, not even once have I ever dreamed of my own death
by lethal injection, and to this day when I do awake knowing that I yet
again was visited by that nightmare of so long ago, it is still always a
death by electrocution in that chair and no other.

That was October 1986 and although a lifetime ago and in a cell at
another prison, (in December 1992, Florida opened the then newly
constructed “northeast unit” at nearby Union Correctional Institution to
house the majority of death-sentenced prisoners), that nightmare is
never far from my consciousness and I know without doubt that others
around me have had similar nightmares of their own death and yet we do
not dare talk about it. And no matter how many more years might yet
pass, I know only too well that that one night in October 1986 will
always be part of who I am, and that I can never escape the trauma
inflicted upon my very soul and know that if the day does come when I am
to be put to death, I will not find the real experience as frightening
as that first nightmare.